Chapter Text
Part One
The Forest Fire
“Your house is on fire,
and I can’t get you to leave it.”
THE TRUCK careens to the left, the momentary light spilling in from the cracks in the boarded-up window disappearing away under the cover of dense forest.
We’ve been quiet for a while now. Though we’re certainly far enough out from civilisation that a few whispered words under the roar of the engine wouldn’t spell a death wish, nobody wants to chat. Today has been a long day, and the air cloys with tension.
I rub my eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness. I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting here, hidden amongst sacks of grain. My legs are numb and sore from hours in the same stiff position; curled up against the creaking, rusty panelling. My breath comes out in cold puffs, teeth chattering from the temperature and the shuddering of the road beneath us.
A hand brushes against my arm. Squinting, I see Mags – the little old lady from District 4 – holding out the pillow our silent ferryman offered up when we boarded this truck two days ago.
I shake my head firmly and try not to sound too pathetic when I say, “No, you keep it.”
With another turn down the road, shafts of winter light flicker back in through the cargo hold. I crane my head up to see if I can get a proper look out through the gaps in the panelling, but no dice. My limbs, too tired from the cold, creak painfully. Poor Mags.
Even without the sight, I’m guessing we must still be somewhere in District 1. Perhaps near the border, or maybe we’ve finally reached the acres of empty land between the districts. Unregulated land, free land. That’s the exact kind of place we met with all the other victors – the rebel ones, at least. An abandoned oil town out on the fringes of District 9 didn’t sound like the ideal place to hold a covert meeting, but Beetee assured us over his secure phone line that we’d be as free as birds.
I suppose he was right. With the distractions of the Victory Tour and some well-timed shit-stirring by our good friends over in District 8, the Capitol has had its hands too full to notice a few of their beloved victors going silent for the weekend.
An exasperated huff of air whistles between my teeth. Fat lot of luck that all did.
This trip was a big deal. It was months in the making, required weeks of careful planning to make sure that not a single hair lay out of line. Conversations were recorded to be played back in our houses while we were gone, friends and families plied with excuses and stories to spread around town; camping trips and weekends away to visit distant cousins across the district. Our departures were timed down to the second. We all knew the risks. We were all prepared to take them, provided it meant we could finally learn what sort of plan Plutarch Heavensbee had concocted in his nearly year-long absence from the grid.
Instead, all we got was a single convoy and three short words from our Gamemaker friend; ‘We’re not ready’.
I can acknowledge that I’m more frustrated than most. This was supposed to be my first proper introduction into the scene. Though judging by the other faces in the truck, I doubt my anger is isolated. If anything, Plutarch’s letter has shrouded an even deeper shadow on an already confusing situation. If Heavensbee has friends willing to help, then the question remains; who are they, and why won’t he reveal them to us?
Haymitch Abernathy, the sole victor from District 12 and apparent longtime seditionist, thinks that whoever Plutarch’s friends are, they don’t like us. Or at the very least, they don’t trust us.
The group sentiment is pretty clear. They might not want us, but they’re certainly going to need us.
Frustration growing, I groan and try to stretch out my cramped limbs. It must be about midday, based on the light outside. Across from me, Finnick Odair kicks my legs in a friendly gesture. His eyes flicker to my side, and he suppresses an amused smile.
There are five of us in the cargo hold. Finnick and Mags, myself, and then two more from my district. The woman sitting next to Finnick is Sylvia Yaw, the only other female victor from District 7, and beside me, nodding off in what looks like the world’s most uncomfortable position, is my best friend, Ashley Firth.
“Is he drooling?” Finnick stage-whispers, peering over in our direction.
I kick him back and roll my eyes. “Oh, leave him alone. You only wish you could get some sleep.”
Finnick sighs wistfully. I do feel bad for him, a little. By this evening our truck will have stopped off in District 7 and we’ll be on our way home, but it will be another day’s drive before he and Mags finally arrive at the border of District 4.
Mags says something that I can’t really understand. Finnick seems to be the only one who can decipher her speech. Apparently she had a stroke last summer. It doesn’t surprise me given her age, but it does make me respect her. Not many people would be running with a rebellion in her condition.
Finnick snorts and nods towards me. “She says you’re looking a little green. Not used to travelling?”
“Well, the Capitol trains certainly don’t feel like this,” I grumble.
Mags gives me a gap-toothed grin and says something else, gesturing with her hands.
“When she was a tribute, the transport was even worse than this,” Finnick translates. “She says we’ve all got spoiled.”
Sylvia, who has been staring at the wall and fiddling with an old ring in her hands, nods her head at this and says somewhat emptily, “Maybe she’s right.”
I pull a face, but smile. I like Sylvia. Maybe I didn’t when I met her, but in hindsight I was certainly on the back foot. She reached my father in his sickness when I couldn’t. Maybe I felt guilty about that. Certainly, I was jealous. But she’s a nice woman. She treated me like family even when I barely knew her, and I suppose it would be impossible to dislike her when my father looks at her the way he does.
She’s distant now, though. Ever since this trip began, she’s had the same expression on her face; nervous, pensive. I can’t quite place what it means. On some level, I’m certain it has something to do with the fact that Ashley and I are here. After all, I know she wanted to keep him safe from all this, the same way he wanted to protect me. But there’s something more to it than that. There’s something else bothering her.
There’s no more time to mull it over however, because just as the thought occurs to me again, the truck shudders to a stop.
To my left, Ashley jerks awake. He bats his hair out of his eyes, wrinkles his nose at the taste in his mouth, and then turns to me, confused. “Is everything alright?”
I pause, listening out for the telltale sound of Peacekeepers, for any sign from our driver that we will have to squeeze into the crawlspace under the floorboards again. But there’s nothing except my breath hitching in my throat.
“Refuelling, probably,” Finnick says. We get the confirmation a few seconds later, when we hear the spare tank being unlatched from the roof above us.
Ashley nods and flexes his shoulders. “Ouch. My neck is killing me.”
“Shouldn’t have used a sack of grain as a pillowcase,” I tell him. My voice sounds awfully loud now that we’re not being deafened by the hum of the engine. Even though I know we’re not in any danger, I can’t help but feel nervous.
Ashley gives me a familiar annoyed look and then bunches up his hair to tie up behind him. He hasn’t shaved in days and he seems exhausted. Not that I’m doing any better. I’m certain the bags under my eyes have their own bags. After this trip, we all look worse for wear.
Except for maybe Finnick. Bastard.
Footsteps pad around the outside of the truck. There’s the sound of a latch, and then the door to the back is being rolled up, white light pouring in and filling up the cargo hold.
Ripley, the District 6 driver who agreed to smuggle our group through the country, peers over us like an omen. He’s in his early forties, a man of very few words. I figure most people from District 6 are. His job is certainly solitary – a necessary evil, the districts need to eat too – and from my experience in the Games, the longer you go without talking to anyone, the less you want to. I think he might be related to one of the other victors, Vega, though nobody’s really explained why he’s helping us.
“Need to take twenty minutes to refuel and cool the truck down,” he tells us in a raspy voice. At least, that’s what I think he says. The District 6 accent is difficult to decipher. “Thought you might enjoy the fresh air before we cross the border into Seven.”
I do, taking in deep breaths of the stuff. Despite the temperature, the inside of the truck is stuffy with five bodies crammed in. Once my eyes adjust, I stumble forwards towards the open door, relishing in the sight of a clear woodland patched with specks of partially thawed snow.
“Borderlands,” Finnick explains when he notices me peering out for any sign of life. “We’ll be the only people for miles. Anyone want to take a walk?”
Happy for the excuse, I hoist myself down the side for the truck; numb feet hitting the dirt road with a soft crunch. Mags waves at us, spreading out her arms like a cat bathing in the perfect patch of sunlight.
Ashley, half-foggy from sleep, yawns and peers over at the front of the truck. “I might help refuel,” he says. “You two go on ahead.”
I give him a nod and follow Finnick, who has already begun wandering down the road we just came from. Ashley calls after me.
“But don’t go too far out,” he says. “Don’t go anywhere I can’t find you.”
Flashing him a grin, I give a little salute of confirmation and disappear down the winding path.
“Have you been around here before?” I ask Finnick once we’ve fallen into pace. My knees are stiff and it’s slow going, but being out in the brief sunlight is enough to seep away some of the frustration that’s been stewing all morning.
“Not here, exactly,” he says. “I’ve been out in-between the districts a few times before. Different place for each meeting. But it’s been a year or two since we’ve been able to see each other properly. Relying on District 6 to move us around makes it a little difficult to, y’know…”
I nod. I knew that already. The communication problem last year was how Ashley got involved in the rebellion in the first place; using his talent as a director to broadcast a show across Panem with coded messages for the other victors to pick up. I’ve always wondered why Plutarch had to rely on him instead of just broadcasting something on his own merit, but it’s become clear recently that he’d rather outsource the risk to anyone but himself.
“I’m guessing most other meetings aren’t usually as disappointing?”
Finnick grimaces. “This wasn’t exactly the best introduction, no.”
I kick a stray patch of snow away as we trudge forward. “What do you really think he’s doing, Finnick?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. Above us, a bird dives between tall branches. I observe it for a moment, worried it might be one of those old muttations — a Capitol spy. But no. It’s just a blackbird. “I’d like to think it means that we’re getting close to shooting our shot. But I have a bad feeling about this.”
I frown at him. “What sort of feeling?”
“Normally, Plutarch is certain about how valuable we are,” he says. “He respects us, because he knows he needs us. But this is different. We’re completely out of the loop. It makes me think that whoever he’s talking to, they must think we’re disposable.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Yeah, but we’re not, though. We’re important. The Capitol loves us. Or, at least, they love most of us. They might think they watch the Games for the Games, but they don’t, they watch it for the victors. We have swaying power.”
Finnick considers this. “Yeah, and that’s why I’m worried.”
I narrow my gaze, but before I can ask him what he means, he continues;
“It doesn’t matter, anyway. We might be popular in the Capitol, but it’s the districts that are the most important. We need to all be on the same page, or we’re in trouble. Look at what happened in District 6. Unless they’re overwhelmed on all fronts, the Capitol is going to come down hard on whoever acts up first and scare the rest away. We need swaying power here first.”
“Well, good luck finding anyone who can strike up their fancy,” I say. “The whole point of the Games is to get the districts to hate each other.”
Finnick nods, his eyes on the road. “Mm. Well, maybe we don’t need a person. Maybe we need a concept. An idea. Something that everyone can relate to.”
I pause, think about it, and then roll my eyes. “Oh, come on. What possible thing could do all that?”
He shrugs and lets it go. We come to a stop in a part of the road bathed in sunlight. I look up and close my eyes, letting the distant heat swallow up my face and shoulders.
“So, what’s all that about, anyway?” Finnick asks me, pointing back down the road we came from.
“What’s what?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrows. “Ashley Firth using your shoulder for naptime. I’ve known the guy for six years. He’s not exactly the touchy type.”
I feel my lips twist up into a grin. “What’s a bit of contact between friends?”
Finnick narrows his gaze and flicks the back of my head with his thumb and forefinger, starting down the path we just came from. “Are you sure? He sounded pretty worried seeing you go off by yourself.”
“Oh, and who are you, the press?” I say, amused. “Mind your business, Odair.”
He snorts. “There’s the confirmation I was looking for.”
“As if you’re one to talk,” I say. “Speaking of, how’s Annie?”
A flash of grey colours his face. “She’s alright,” he says. “I just don’t enjoy leaving her alone for so long.”
“Does she know where you’ve gone?”
Finnick shakes his head. “She thinks I’m on a fishing trip with Mags. She can’t know about this.”
I think about the people back home; my father, my friend Lynn. “I get it,” I say, and then mimic the action of locking my lips with a set of keys. “I won’t say a word.”
“I’d do anything to keep her safe,” he says. “Anything.”
Again, I think of who I have back in District 7. Who I have back in the truck. “Yeah, I get that too,” I tell him. “I mean, that’s why we’re doing all this, isn’t it?”
He nods. “I just hope that next time we have to do it, it goes off a little better.”
OUR JOURNEY ends late afternoon, five bodies stuffed under the false floor of the truck, legs tangled together, breath low. Three knocks come from the wall leading to the driver’s seat; Ripley’s sign that the coast is clear and we’ll be safe to depart soon.
Goodbyes are whispered under the sound of tires over gravel. Even if we wanted to stay any longer, we couldn't. We’re on a strict time crunch. In a few hours we’re expected at the Justice Building to greet the newest victor, Calico Pallett, as he makes his way around the country on his Victory Tour.
“Until summer,” Finnick tells us. “Or maybe before, if we’re lucky.”
“Or unlucky, ” Ashley remarks with droll cheer, but gives Finnick a pat on the back anyway, because despite Finnick’s comments to the contrary, I know he’s actually quite fond of the man.
Mags tucks a stray hair behind my ear and hugs Sylvia tightly before we go. Then it’s just a few moments of waiting until the truck slows down enough, a swift unlatching of the door – barely enough to squeeze through – and we’re tumbling out onto the familiar foggy roads of District 7 in midwinter.
It’s the same place we got picked up from, so the path back to town is easy to find. We pick up the backpacks we left hidden in the body of a hollowed-out trunk, stretch briefly under the dwindling sunlight, and march towards the direction of Victor’s Village.
There’s no real chance for us to discuss the events of the previous few days. While a convert spot like this probably doesn’t have any cameras, we’re nearing the main body of the district. Around here, anyone might be listening. Our thoughts about this weekend will have to stay where most thoughts about the rebellion do – safely in our heads.
In lieu of any actual discussion, we break into a rapturous conversation about our midwinter camping trip, asking Sylvia how her beloved cousin is doing and how, oh, isn’t it funny that we’ve all come across each other on our way back home?
It’s getting easier to lie as time goes on. In some ways it’s become second nature. But it doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it. I can see it in the others’ faces; we’re tired, we’re disappointed, and the last thing we want to do is to put on a cherry face for the strangers that may or may not be listening.
The sun is just teetering at the edge of the horizon when we finally cross the border into the Village. Blight is standing at his front porch, defrosting the outside of his window panes. He sends us a curt wave in greeting. I’m certain he’s been waiting to make sure we arrive back home safely. He knows where we’ve been, of course. Blight is in our little team too. But it would be too suspicious for all four of us to disappear, and besides, somebody needed to hold down the fort in Seven. Certainly it couldn’t be our fifth and final victor, Pliny, who I’m unsure has experienced a coherent thought in years.
Sylvia bids us farewell outside her front gate. We’ll see her tonight, but I can’t help the worry that lurches up when I see the expression rising on her face behind the frosted glass of her door.
I’d ask Ashley about it, but I wouldn’t want him to fret. I know Sylvia is important to him.
We make the trip down towards my house in silence. It’s become usual at this point for Ashley and I to split our time between his place and mine. Half his clothes sit in the closet of my spare bedroom anyway, and I doubt either of us want to be alone after the weekend we’ve just had.
Besides, we have a story to keep up.
My father greets us at the doorway. It’s a big hug for me and a respectful nod towards Ashley – who, painfully true to form, still seems a bit awkward around him. He brushes off the flecks of sleet that have gathered on my woollen hat and holds me at arm’s length.
“You look awful, Johanna,” he says. He sniffs. “You smell it too.”
I let out an airy laugh, trying not to sound too deflated. “Oh, you know. Rough-and-tumble weekend.”
My father regards me. “I don’t know what possessed the pair of you to go on a camping trip in the dead of winter. You’ll get sick.”
I look at Ashley. It’s not our best lie, sure, but what else were we supposed to say? I couldn’t possibly tell my father the truth about what we’ve been up to. He’d almost certainly refuse to let me continue on, and most importantly – as Finnick reminded me – he’d be in immediate danger if someone found out. Us victors might be useful alive, but our families aren’t, and I refuse to let him become a casualty.
“I think I might already have a cold coming on,” Ashley says. That might even be true. His nose is looking awfully red.
“Never again,” I agree.
“Well, you’ll have time to rest tomorrow,” my father says. “Someone from the Capitol called; wanted to check you were alright to make it for tonight.”
My eyes flicker up towards the clock hanging down the hallway, beside the entrance to the kitchen. There’s only an hour before we’re supposed to be back in the centre of town. Time seems to be sprinting away from me.
I put my hand on Ashley’s shoulder and push him up towards the stairs. “We should get ready. We can catch up tomorrow.”
I don’t quite miss the disappointment in my father’s eyes. I’ve been busy recently, and I suppose with everything going on, I haven’t spent all that much time with him.
He takes it on the chin, though, because that’s the Mason way. “I was wondering — if you see Sylvia tonight, could you ask her to stop by? I haven’t heard from her all that much recently.”
I resist the urge to frown. Sylvia has been avoiding my father? That certainly seems strange. “Sure thing.”
When we’re upstairs, I allow myself five minutes to collapse on my bed. Ashley perches himself on the edge of an armchair, wringing out his wet socks. “Can’t believe we have to show our faces to the press today,” he groans. “I hate those bastards.”
Despite myself, I snort, rolling over so that I’m facing the ceiling, arms outstretched. “I don’t want to dress up.”
“You could wear anything and they’ll allow it,” he says. “They love it when you don’t follow the rules. Their special little rebel princess.”
Rebel princess. Ironic. I toss my balled-up hat at him. “Take a shower. You stink.”
Ashley, to his credit, does just that. I wait until he’s gone to sit up and paw through my wardrobe. I’m still uneasy, and the knowledge that the Capitol is back in District 7 is enough to press down heavy on me. There’s been no sign that anything is wrong. No Peacekeepers came knocking down my door, nobody seems to think anything is amiss. As far as anyone else is concerned, today is a perfectly ordinary day. Still, there’s a horrible sticky feeling hanging in the air, as though something terrible has happened, I just don’t know it yet.
My paranoia is getting the better of me. I groan, pressing my head against the cool wooden wardrobe door as I hear the shower start in the background. Shit. I’m desperate for some sort of distraction.
IF YOU were to ask me to conjure up the modal image of a District 1 victor, I’d probably give you Calico Pallett. Eighteen-years-old, with a squeaky-clean smile and a scrubbed-up suit, clean shaven and perfectly quaffed. He glides around the hall of the Justice Building like an angel, shaking hands and kissing cheeks.
“I bet you his shits don’t stink,” I murmur to Ashley, swirling around a half-empty glass of wine as we observe the crowd.
He snorts, but doesn’t say anything back. His eyes trail on the camera crew prowling the other side of the hall, shutters fixed on Calico’s dreamlike grin.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask.
“Minnie,” he says, after a moment of pause. “I’m thinking about how the next time we see them, they’ll probably be just like that.”
I take a big swig of my drink. Minnie is our escort — the newest addition to our team after our old escort got promoted up to District 4 last year. They were a friend until the Capitol took them away for re-education. Now I don’t know what they are.
“Have you called them yet?” I ask.
Ashley shakes his head. “I can’t bring myself to pick up the phone.”
We’re momentarily distracted by one of the older victors from District 1 – Augustus Braun, Calico’s mentor – who comes over to say hello. The camera crews take it as their opportunity to snap a few photographs of the three of us together; camaraderie from a group of victors who won in the same five-year span. Oh, what good friends we all are.
My smile is forced, but they probably won’t show these pictures to the press. This year, District 7 hasn't taken the pains to follow the Capitol’s fashion trends. Our silent rebellion. I’ve kept my hair in the same choppy style I’ve had it in since I won, half-braided around the front, shorter at the back. My pair of ripped jeans and half-formal shirt are in contrast to Augustus’ tailored suit. And Ashley’s hair is long enough now to brush over his shoulders, his eyebrows thick and expressive. I don’t know why the Capitol has decided that this year they want their men and women hairless. It makes them all look like plucked chickens.
District 1 included. Augustus is freaking me out.
A jaunty tune rises from the stage; tonight’s entertainment is a band hired from the local school. Through the crowd I spot Sylvia, looking down at her half-empty cup, a million miles away. She’s not drinking, I notice. Thinking of my father, I excuse myself to go talk to her, but before I can make it halfway, a hand clasps onto my shoulder.
“Johanna Mason,” says Calico Pallett. “Finally.”
I give him a polite smile. I don’t dislike Calico any more than I like him. He didn’t make much of an impression on me last year, but at the very least, he wasn’t the one who touched my tribute. It’s a small miracle. I know that in the next dfew years I won’t be that fortunate, – most likely, the kids from District 7 will fall at the hands of future victors – but at least for now, it means I can look him in the eyes without feeling sick.
“I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to say hello yet,” he says. “I’ve been so busy. So many people to meet.”
I return his handshake. “Don’t lie. You’re sick of it.”
Calico’s eyes narrow, but not in insult. “Would you like to dance? I’ve heard the steps in District 7 are quite jovial.”
I snort and gesture forward in agreement. “Somebody’s lied to you, then.”
The crowd parts around us as we slip into the middle of the hall, falling into a series of familiar steps that I learnt for my own tour last year. Calico is a natural at the moves, cutting through the air with ease. I sense lenses latched onto us.
“I wish they’d stop doing that,” he says.
“Well, that’s the life of a victor, man,” I say, somewhat amused. “Goodbye to your peace and quiet. You’ll fart and it’ll be tomorrow’s headline.”
“I know,” he hums. “The others told me. I just didn’t expect it to be so annoying.”
I laugh. “Boo-hoo. Don’t tell me you regret winning.”
“No,” he says. “Just moaning.” The cameras move to get a better angle. “Bastards.”
I’m pleasantly surprised. “Oh, give it a year or two,” I say. “They’ll move on to newer, shinier products, and then you’ll be free to fart in peace.”
“Is that what's happened to you, then?” Calico asks. “I’ve won, and now they’ve moved on?”
“Not exactly,” I say. “But I’m certain that next summer, once they’ve got a new victor and a new set of tributes to worry about, District 7 will be the furthest thing from their minds.”
The music changes and our footsteps speed up. More people have joined the dance, our bodies lost in the whirl of the crowd.
“It’s all the same,” Calico says glumly, peering about. “No offence. I just wish they’d show us more of the actual districts. I’m tired of seeing the insides of Justice Buildings.”
“You’re nearly halfway,” I say. “Just wait until you get to the Capitol. That’s the real showstopper.”
Something funny crosses his face. “Bet.”
I think about my own Victory Tour. “You got appointments when you get to the city?”
“Sure,” Calico shrugs. “Something like that.”
The cameras have found us again, red lights trailed on us like lasers.
“This will be on the news tomorrow,” he says, a half-apology in his tone. “They’ll think we’re interested in one another.”
I snort. “No offence, but you’re not my type.”
“You’re not either,” he says. “I have a girlfriend back home, but they act like she doesn’t exist. I hate it.”
“Ignore it, then,” I say. “That’s what I do.”
“I can’t,” Calico says. “I try to, but no matter what I do, I can’t resist. I need to know what they’re saying about me.” He sighs. “I just wish they’d talk about something else, even for a second. Just a day of peace.”
I twist my lips. I’m not sure if it’s the wine or a different impulsivity talking when I say, “I can do that for you.”
Calico’s eyebrows shoot straight up. “How?”
I pat his shoulder. “Don’t worry about that. Just enjoy your evening.”
He blinks. “You’re serious?”
“Sure,” I shrug, unhooking my hands from around his neck and giving him a little wink. “I’ll be seeing you around this summer.”
The cameras are still glued on him as I disappear back into the crowd. I don’t let him say another word, because I’m worried he’ll thank me, and honestly, what I’m about to do isn’t really for Calico at all. But his words have me thinking about what Finnick was talking about earlier today. About how the Capitol only really sees anyone from the districts as a person once they’ve won the Games, about how the districts don’t need a person to look up to, they need something more immaterial than that; more abstract, more universal.
Maybe I’m just feeling a bit more rebellious today, too. But if Finnick is right, then maybe this is a theory I’d like to play around with.
Ashley’s still hidden by the edge of the hall, talking to Augustus. Steeling myself, I wander over, taking him by the hand and dragging him out to the dance floor.
“Oh, Jo, I’m terrible at dancing,” he whines. We’re spat back into the whirlwind of bodies. My eyes dart around, looking for any sign of a camera.
“You’re a big boy,” I tell him, somewhat distracted. “Suck it up.”
He pouts at me. I can tell he’s a bit tipsy; cheeks flushed pink, a little unsteady on his feet. I’m lucky that Ashley is a lightweight. He might not go along with this fully sober.
Aha. There’s one of the film crew, just a few feet away. Hook. Line. Now all I need to do is get us both in shot, and let the rest fall into place.
I pull Ashley closer. He stumbles a little, confused. “You know, Finnick noticed this morning that we were getting a little cosy. Funny, huh?”
He blinks. “Oh. Uh. Right.”
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Who might be paying attention?”
He uses his free hand to smooth his hair away. “I guess,” he shrugs.
Oh, you’re definitely drunk, I think. Sober Ashley would certainly shy away from this line of conversation. I lean a little closer and make sure the cameras are still pointed in our direction. To my relief, he doesn’t pull away.
“I was thinking,” I say. “Maybe it’s time to put District 7 back on the map.”
He frowns. “I don’t -”
I cut him off with a quick kiss.
It’s not the first time we’ve done something like this. It’s happened once or twice before. Maybe that’s a big deal, or maybe it’s not. We’ve both agreed that it doesn’t really matter, we’ll just take things as they come. But this is the first time we’ve ever done anything like this in public – not even in front of anyone we know, let alone a camera crew who have the power to broadcast us all over Panem.
A quick check tells me, oh yes, they’re definitely interested now.
Ashley blinks slowly once I pull away, tilting his head to the side, confused. “What was that for?”
“Oh, just testing something,” I say, tucking away a stray hair from his face. “Don’t worry about it.”
Even drunk, he still looks nervous. Ashley is Ashley, I suppose. “You don’t think we’ll get in trouble for that, do you?”
I flash him a smile. “Oh, maybe we will, maybe we won’t. Honestly, I hope we do.”
His eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?”
“I told you,” I say, “don’t worry about it. And, look, if we do get in trouble, we can just blame it on the alcohol.”
That seems to placate him. He nods absently. “I am feeling a bit - phew. ”
I roll my eyes fondly and pull him out of the crowd, nudging him towards the back of the room. “Go drink some water,” I say. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
I watch him as he goes. I’ll probably have to deal with him tomorrow, since I doubt he’ll be particularly happy. But I’m certain that once I explain my rationale, he’ll understand. Besides, I know Ashley. Keeping secrets stresses him out just as much as public attention does. There’ll probably be a small part of him that’s relieved, even though he’ll never admit it in a million years.
Anyway, besides the film crew, I don’t think anyone else actually saw us. Most of the partygoers are too busy dancing or chatting away, enjoying the food, the wine. The band is preoccupied with their instruments. The night is late, and people are worried about themselves, just like they always are.
I decide to take my chance and wander about, bidding farewell to the few people I’m friendly with. Better to make a quick escape and keep the press wanting more.
But as I walk, I still get the distant feeling that someone’s watching me. For a moment I’m confused. All the cameras are now filming the arrival of a great cake, courtesy of the baker. Ashley is on the other side of the room, staring woozily at the floor. Calico is telling the mayor a joke, a crowd surrounding him. I’m invisible.
Then my eyes trail back to the spot I was looking at earlier and find Sylvia glaring at me; her face like stone.
Without meaning to, my smile drops. I’ve never seen her look at me like that – never seen her look at anyone like that before. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she might even look mad. But that doesn’t make any sense. Sylvia likes me. She’s always liked me.
I raise my arm in a little wave. She doesn’t return it. She just blinks and her gaze returns down to the glass of water in her hands.
Suddenly, despite my bravado, I feel uneasy again – just like I did on our walk home earlier today. I smooth down my clothes and hurry to find Ashley.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, and though I try to smile, my voice wavers.
He frowns, still hazy. “You alright?”
I loop my arm around his. “Yeah,” I lie. “Fine. I’m perfectly fine.”
It’s a quick march to the exit. There’s another camera on us, I can feel it. I turn to see if I can spot Sylvia again, but there’s only an empty space where she used to be sitting.
“Jo,” Ashley complains, hanging in the doorway. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I say, and try for the biggest smile I can. “Come on. Let’s go home.”